Shut Up and Dance
by A Beautiful Irony
Summary: Second installment in a series of Scenes Based on Songs, inspired by Shut Up and Dance with Me by Walk the Moon. This story serves as one version of the first meeting of Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne, at the annual Wayne New Year's Eve Ball, whose glitz and glitter cannot outshine the strange, unexpected attraction between the two. Set during Batman's first year.
1. The Woman

The Woman

Line: "Now don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me. I said, 'you're holding back.' She said 'shut up and dance with me.'"

Song: Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon

He spots her across the dance floor at the annual Wayne Foundation New Year's Eve Ball.

It is hardly late into the night, yet most of the guests are already thoroughly sloshed, having enthusiastically imbibed enough alcohol to tank a small elephant. They swirl about the room, swaths of gaudy color against the white walls and black parquet flooring, reflected back to themselves in hectic splendor from the polished silver ceiling. Golden streamers spiraling out from the sparkling chandelier cast shards of yellow glow onto faces and gowns, into glasses, jewels, and wine, obscuring identity, hiding intent. A parody of a music box.

His eye alights on her form flashing in and out of sight within the crowd. He has never seen her before. She is an anomaly, standing perfectly still in the middle of anarchy, unchanging as hundreds of people boil and shift around her like an island in a roiling, greedy ocean. Like the eye of the storm.

Dark hair cascades in soft curls to her middle back, and her skin has a natural olive tint, unenhanced by tanning lotions or harsh UVs. Bruce's gaze travels from the elegant features of her beautifully sculpted face, down her neck to dainty collar bones, feminine shoulders... Her figure is svelte, but her bearing and the subtle lines of whipcord muscle in her arms and legs belie a hidden physical prowess.

Her gown is simple, yet excellently cut. Matte black satin hugs every generous curve, the hem falling to her ankles before flaring out in a slight, stylish train. The slit in its side runs up nearly to her hip. She wears no jewels, offering only her astounding natural beauty to any onlooker. Without that distraction of glitz or shine, the ensemble's bold statement reads loud and clear: she doesn't need it. She is, quite simply, the most stunning woman Bruce Wayne has ever seen. She takes his breath away.

His eyes roam over her legs... Her hips... The full swell of her breasts.

Suddenly, he is imagining their weight, how they would feel in his hands… her hips grinding against his own… those perfect legs wrapping themselves around him in the dark…

Bruce can feel his body flushing. If he hadn't been sipping ginger ale all night instead of wine, he'd be certain he was drunk. Maybe he is. Has Alfred finally made good his threat to take measures toward keeping his erstwhile charge in, nights?

Musing, Bruce returns his gaze to the woman's face, and nearly chokes in shock.

She is watching him sideways, through eyes heavy-lidded and impossibly green. An attractive smirk hovers around her perfect red mouth. Bruce tries not to hyperventilate. What all did she see, how much was she able to glean from his expression? Obviously enough to read his last few thoughts.

She turns to him fully then, a flute of champagne in one hand and a quizzical eyebrow raised. Bruce takes a single step toward her.

Suddenly, four pairs of hands grab his arms and wrench him backward. It takes a split second and all of his suddenly chaotic control to realize that the fingers holding him are feminine, well-manicured, and statistically unlikely to be concealing deadly weapons. Probably not the talons of Hell dragging him to his doom, all things considered. Therefore, it stands to reason that he should refrain from flipping his assailants over his head and into the wall.

Not an attack. No violence. Calm down.

He forces his breath steady, his expression clean, slowly relaxing out of a vicious, nearly imperceptible attack stance.

His captors, harmless young heiresses all, snicker to each other. They are amused at the notorious Bruce Wayne's momentary look of bewilderment, completely unaware of their very real brush with disaster.

They would not be laughing now if they had seen that flat, violent instinct flash across his didn't see his mask slip.

Did she?

He looks over his shoulder, searching for the mysterious woman, but finds no one. She has vanished.

The moon is hanging low in the sky, drunken revelers just beginning to trickle out of Wayne Mansion's enormous double doors and into the night, when they meet again. It has been hours, and not once in all this time has he seen her, though, for security purposes, he has most certainly been looking. It is therefore rather a shock when she finds him first.

"Fancy meeting you here," a female voice remarks sultrily from behind him. "I don't believe we've met." Bruce whirls, wondering for a split second how she managed to get the drop on him - in heels - before adjusting his expression to that of Vapid Playboy.

"No, we haven't," he says, trying to keep the interest out of his voice. "We should fix that."

"That depends," she returns, smiling slightly. Her voice is lower than he would have expected, a rich alto purr that seems to flow from her lips, so unlike the unnatural, scratchy soprano adopted by most women in his social circles. "You leer at all the ladies like that?"

He winces.

"Well..." Yes. But it's usually an act for the cameras. "It's not often that one meets a woman as lovely as you," he says, feeling the words ring truer than expected. "One has to look his fill while he can. Right?"

"That also depends," she says, her smile now a downright grin. "How long were you intending to look? Because it's all well and good to enjoy the view. But personally, I've always preferred a man of... action." Bruce's eyes widen. Her words drip sex.

Bruce feels his heart rate quicken fractionally, his muscles flex.

How is this woman... Doing this?

"I think I can manage that," he says, his voice rougher, deepening of its own accord. She leans in close, her lips nearly brushing his own. Her breath is sweet, like champagne.

"Prove it," she whispers. Not a request. A challenge.

Bruce does love a challenge.

He wraps his hands around her waist, bringing her closer. She winds her slender arms around his neck and he pulls her into the fray of lingering dancers. As they move to the music, her hips swaying hypnotically against his own, he says, "I don't believe I caught your name."

"No, you didn't," she agrees, and, just to make her point, adds, "Mr. Wayne."

"Call me Bruce," he hears himself say.

"Bruce," she purrs against his throat. "I like it." Her lips brush his jugular and he swallows, fighting the sudden urge to bury his face in her neck.

A collective gasp of outrage sounds from somewhere behind him, and he wonders suddenly just how many women are currently glaring at his mysterious dance partner.

"Don't you dare look back," she orders, reclaiming his attention instantly. Her smile is downright feline. "I'm not very good at dancing, you see. I'll need your help."

She's lying. He can tell by the movement of her hips alone that she knows perfectly well what she's doing. It is his turn to whisper in her ear.

"I think you're holding back."

Her eyes darken, some new emotion evident in her face, although she is visibly attempting to hide it.

"Shut up and dance with me," she husks, the sound going through him like lightning. He places her expression.

Lust.

She's not alone either, as one glance around the room of partygoers makes evident – but she is different. For one thing, she is surprisingly analytical. Open curiosity is written on her features as though she sees right through his carefully-constructed ruse. He gets the feeling that she is mining his words and actions for clues and double meanings, just as he is, hers. It is not something he is used to. He is not sure how he feels about it.

For another thing, he doesn't know her name, address, occupation, and (statistically likely) illegal side operations.

And for a third, the feeling is mutual.

He twirls her slowly, contemplating the situation.

He should pull away. Right now. He should make a show of snubbing her – it would solidify his popularity with the room at large. The women would be pleased, and the men more willing to fork over their checkbooks in favor of the Wayne Foundation's latest efforts on behalf of the Gotham Educators Influx Plan. Getting the rich to part with their money is all but impossible, and one of the few things that Bruce's darker counterpart needs the idiot playboy to accomplish. Causing this kind of scene is absolutely not assisting that objective.

And dancing with this woman, while intriguing, is most certainly derailing his plan to initiate a feigned affair with Veronica Vreeland later this evening. But her green eyes are watching him, staring boldly into his own without a trace of modesty or fear. As though she has every right to stand in his arms and size him up as though he were any ordinary man. It is… rather refreshing, actually. Oddly attractive.

He really should pull away.

He should, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in, his lips close to her ear. The scent of her skin is captivating. He can't place the perfume… maybe it's just her.

His hand finds the small of her back, and he murmurs,

"Gladly," before moving them farther into the crowd, away from the jealous onlookers.

The song changes, grows heavy. She brushes her lips along his jaw. Her skin is like satin and her hair curls itself around his fingers almost possessively. The space between them is charged, vibrating with electricity, making their blood run hot and their pulses align.

His fingers drift along her spine, lower… lower. The minutes pass. They circle the dancefloor with graceful steps, somehow finding a tango within the blaring beat of the house music throbbing against them. In the hot center of the crowd, where the light is dim, it is as though the very air is pushing them together.

As the song draws to a close, he can feel her tensing, steeling herself to move away. For some reason, he can't let that happen.

Desperately, unthinkingly, he wraps his arms around her, crushing her body against his own for a fleeting moment, inhaling her scent. The air goes out of her lungs, and she reciprocates his grip, surprising him by turning her face into his neck, her hands in his hair.

His thoughts are a mess, desire settling like a thick haze over his mind. Her face has turned a delicate shade of pink, her skin warm. His mouth hovers above hers. He wants to breathe her air. He wants to –

The clock chimes midnight, shattering the moment, and they fly apart. He holds her at arms' length, the both of them out of breath and appearing utterly bemused as the last echoing clangs die out and chatter resumes.

"That's my cue," she whispers, stepping out of his grasp.

"I see," he says. "Cinderella leaves at midnight?" His words carry more disappointment than humor.

"Believe me," she replies, her voice taking on a strange edge. "I'm no princess, Bruce." She turns from him, and he takes her hand, keeping her there.

They stare at one another for a long moment.

Finally, she seems to reach a kind of resolution. She lifts onto her toes, just barely, enough to let him see her intentions, but allowing him to reject them if he wishes. Obviously, he does not wish. Hesitating only an instant, Bruce leans in and, without a word, presses his lips against hers. When they separate, she lowers herself slowly to the floor, searching his face.

Something flickers in her eyes, too quick for him to catch. Then she smirks, leaning back into his chest. "By the way," she chuckles softly. "It's Selina."

Sleekly unnoticed, she slips his wallet, Rolex, and diamond cufflinks into the pocket of his heinously expensive, black silk suit jacket.

Then she is gone, melting into the dwindling crush of people without a trace. Bruce stands there a minute, considering.

His thoughts are jumbled. He still knows next to nothing about her, and that really should bother him more than it does. It shouldn't be possible, actually. This is perhaps the first time he has had so much contact with another person, and gotten so little information out of the exchange. He gets the distinct impression she planned it that way, and can't help but wonder why. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruce hopes the answer doesn't land her in jail.

He knows nothing about her. But now, he definitely wants to.

Selina…

Whoever she is…

She made an impression.


	2. The Cat

It is not the first time the Bat has met the Cat. As a matter of fact, it has been over a year since their first encounter at Falcone's opulent penthouse. They have fallen into something of a pattern - she steals, he chases, she teases, he ignores her, she arouses him, he finally gives into the banter. And then she escapes. Sometimes he wonders if she actually steals when she goes out, or if she simply puts on the costume to annoy him at this point. He suspects that it may be a mixture of both.

In any case, here she is again, having appeared out of nowhere on the old brick chimney above him.

"Hi, Handsome," he hears her chuckle. "Looking for me?"

Batman whirls, wondering again how she continuously manages to get the drop on him - in heels, no less.

"Catwoman," he grates, concealing his body's instinctive reaction to her behind a barrier of stoicism. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you," she grins, leaping down from her perch. "Looking for trouble."

He steels himself as she approaches, silently, across the rough gravel rooftop. He watches her emerge from the shadows into the yellowish light of the moon, coming too close, invading his space. She leans against his chest, seizing his cape in her gloved hands. He stands straighter, trying to ignore the smell of her - that and the purple leather covering her svelte curves like a second skin. What little he can see of her face below the cat-eared cowl is soft and inviting, plump red lips curved up in a predatory smile. She looks up at him from beneath a thick fringe of black lashes, her eyes warm and impossibly green.

Something flashes at the edge of his memory. But she is breathing words against his throat, and he cannot hold the image.

"You're playing a dangerous game," she says. "I can help you. Show you the tricks of the trade. You should learn how to..." She arches her back. "... Bend the rules."

Batman lets out a huff, his annoyance at her performance at least equal to his ire at his own reaction to it. Not that he lets her see that reaction, but still... He knows. Can feel his heart rate quicken, his body growing taut.

She once told him that she knows he wants something from her because he goes 'all rigid' when she's around. Even with all his training, she manages to wreak havoc on his body, let alone his state of mind. He can never pin her down, can never guess her angle, what she's really after.

Tonight, she appears to be offering her assistance. But with what? There are no open cases at the moment. She might have information on something else, some new criminal scene he has yet to discover, but that doesn't seem right. He senses that she has another motive. And he isn't in the mood to humor her tonight.

"What do you want, Catwoman," he demands. "Or should I be arresting you for stealing more priceless artifacts?"

Actually, he probably should. There are likely still a few standing warrants for her arrest.

And yet... Here he is, far from taking her into custody. Instead, he is talking to her, casually, as though this is normal. As though they share something here, in the night. He often has to remind himself that they share nothing more than a strange schedule.

"Oh, I want a few things, Handsome," she says sleekly, her eyes lingering on him in a way that makes his belt feel tight. "But right now, I think I'd really like a dance."

She jumps forward suddenly and kicks into a flip, using Batman's solar plexus as a springboard. The big man stumbles backward, trying to drag air into his straining lungs.

Catwoman lands perfectly three feet away, her whip sliding loose from around her waist and coiling like a serpent at her heel.

"Looks like you've got two left feet. But that's alright," she quips, smirking. "I can lead."

A sudden movement to his left brings Batman's head around, scanning the area for a new attacker. There is a loud crack, and the whip wraps itself around his neck. Catwoman pulls, wrenching him forward, and steps on the cord. Batman falls onto his forearms, glaring up at her.

"Now, don't you dare look back," she purrs. "Just keep your eyes on me."

Something about those words seems vaguely familiar, but again, he has no time to place the memory. Catwoman's whip slackens, allowing him to somersault closer to her, tearing the cord from his neck, and escaping her hold. She kicks out, her foot connecting with his shoulder. He feels it, but it doesn't slow him down. She jumps, but he catches her ankle, bringing her down, hard. She hisses up at him as he stands over her, her whip in his hand.

"Why are you doing this," he asks. Her performance isn't making any sense.

"Maybe I just like the game," she says, sweeping his legs out from under him and rolling to her feet. He is up again in a heartbeat, and she leaps onto his back, reclaiming her bullwhip as he reaches up to drag her off. She is gone before he can grab her, cartwheeling across the roof in the opposite direction.

But she doesn't leave the building. Is she just playing with him? A cat and her prey...

"You're holding back," he realizes as another of her blows lands, but does little damage. She hasn't even broken out the claws, usually a staple of the catburglar.

And there is that movement again –

"Shut up and dance with me," she snarls, coming at him again. He continues to block her, but the conviction has gone out of his blows. Something about this isn't right. She's barely trying, yet her eyes are deadly serious. She doesn't want to hurt him. What is she playing at?

The sound. The sound again, from somewhere in the darkness, somewhere on his right. She hears it too – she lunges for him, a distraction, and it's not like her at all. It's desperate, sloppy even, and he blocks it easily, wrapping her entire hand in his fist as it careens toward his face. She falls forward, thrown by her own momentum into his iron grip. He traps her against his body, locking her arms between them, behind her back. Her wild eyes roll toward the sound, even as she strains to break his hold.

Without releasing her, Batman lets fly two batarrangs from his armored glove.

There is a short cry, and a small, red-headed figure falls forward into the light, first to its knees, then to the cold rooftop, unconscious.

"Bastard!" Catwoman roars, fighting to free herself from his hold.

"What is this?" He demands, mystified.

"She's just a kid," Catwoman spits furiously. "She slipped up."

"What are you talking -?"

"She's trying to get clean," she exclaims. "She doesn't deserve to go to jail!"

Oh.

Understanding dawns. Batman blinks.

"This girl is your friend?" he asks.

"Catburglars can have friends, yes," she says scathingly.

"And you thought I would arrest her?" He continues incredulously. "For what? Trying to score drugs... On a roof?"

"She was using." There is a strange edge to Catwoman's voice. "I came looking for her, to try to stop her... And lo and behold, here you are to save the day," she finishes acidly. "She doesn't deserve prison!"

He loosens his grip, just enough to let her jerk her head around, so he can see her eyes. They glare up at him.

"You were stalling so that she could escape," he says. "You were trying to save her. From me." How utterly bizarre.

"How astute of you," she sneers.

"Why didn't you lead me away from her?" he asks, suddenly skeptical. "Why keep the fight here, on the same rooftop? You could have moved us to the Diamond District and I never would have known."

"I couldn't leave her alone," Catwoman sighs, sounding suddenly, deeply tired. "She begged me."

"She thought I was coming to arrest her."

"That's right, Bats" she confirms, tensing again for battle. "And if you dare—"

"I'm not going to take her in," he cuts her off. Catwoman blinks.

"Liar. I know you. You and your overblown sense of 'justice.' You don't suffer drug addicts any more than you do murderers or petty thieves." He raises an eyebrow involuntarily.

"Your theft is hardly what most would consider 'petty,'" he says dryly.

"Oh no," she replies, and her tone would be playful if she weren't so tense. "My heists are grand as they come. I deserve prison. But Holly doesn't." Her last words are firm.

"No. No," he agrees softly, easing up further on her pinned arms. She bolts, turning to eye him warily, rubbing her biceps where they have gone numb.

Normally, she likes a roll or two with the Batman, but there is too much at stake tonight.

"No, what?"

"No," he clarifies. "I won't take her – Holly? - to prison. I've seen her do nothing illegal. And if she really is getting clean..." He pauses. Continues, quieter now. "She won't accomplish any of that behind bars."

Catwoman looks at him for a moment.

"Damn, you're strange," she whispers. "Why do I like you?" He glances up at her sharply, but she is shaking her head. "Guess I just prefer a man of action."

The great clanging of Gotham's Cathedral Square striking three o'clock in the morning rings out across the skyline. The bells of four churches, situated within a block from each other on Gotham's Lower West Side, compete for supremacy with the constant sound of sirens. Catwoman springs lightly to her feet.

"That's my cue," she says, lifting the prone, much younger woman from the roof with surprising ease. Batman starts forward, recognition sparking.

"Wait," he whispers, his mind jarring. "Wait. What did you say?"

The world spins. Suddenly, the ground is gone, rooftops sliding sideways as the black ground rushes up to meet them. Batman blinks against the dizziness inside his skull, and his ears begin to ring before his thoughts drown out even that.

"Sorry Bats," Catwoman calls over her shoulder, and she sounds miles away. "I'm afraid our dance is done for now. I've got to get this one home before daylight. See you 'round."

"No, wait," he calls, louder, reaching to stop her. "Who – Stop!"

Who was it, caught his eye in a sea of people across a dancefloor one – two? – New Years' Eves ago, now?

Who was it, danced like a sparring partner at Johnny Viti's wedding? Who bought him a rose from a street vendor with her own money? Who dragged her chair to his side on one of the most hated days of his year?

"Oh, now you want me around," the woman in cat ears and a purple tail laughs, turning back to him. "I thought you worked alone."

"I thought you couldn't dance," he murmurs numbly. Her face freezes.

She stares at him.

No. Who?

Who was it, stood her up on every major holiday? Who was it, wanted her like water, but hated to be touched? Who laughed the loudest in a crowded room, yet barely spoke a word once they were alone? Who was it, loved her with his eyes; who left her with his body; who lost her with his absence?

Catwoman stares at the man in the bat costume, thunderstruck, beyond coherent thought.

Impossible. No. How?

"Mr. Wayne," she breathes soundlessly. Her lungs are tight as iron bands. She blinks spastically. "Fancy meeting you here."

He opens his mouth, but no words form.

Who was it, once answered the door in nothing but a bathrobe and pulled him inside by his tie? Who waited hours and he never showed? Who wrote him a letter to say goodbye? Who was it, left him utterly alone and vanished without a trace, beyond even his powers of detection?

Who was it, asked him once what it would take to finally let go?

"Ms. Kyle," Bruce murmurs. His body is absolutely stiff.

She disappears from the roof.


End file.
